The room
by Mrs.J.Malfoy
Summary: A memory. Your memory, my memory, our memory's. They fill me up. Some loud and forth coming, others soft but none the less important.


Title: The Room

Summary: A memory. Your memory, my memory, our memory's. They fill me up. Some loud and forth coming, others soft but none the less important.

Pairings: Hermione/Draco

Rating: K

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I can dream!

A memory. Your memory, my memory, our memories. They fill me up, some come loud and forth coming, others soft but none the less important.

My memories are kept in a room, locked away in boxes. Where are yours kept?

I like the room, it keeps my head clear, helps me think, it can leave me bank sometimes, emotionless, but I like the empty feeling it leaves behind when I enter and forget the world for a split second.

The room is quiet big, spacious and airy, with many windows, it reminds me somewhat of a hotel I once stayed in with my mother, my room reminds me of the entrance to that of the hotel, high ceilings, glassy wood floors, empty space just waiting to be filled but never could be.

On the far side, to my left that is, sat heavy oak double doors, much like those in the entrance hall of the great hall, and to the left of those sits a stage, not very large, 3 small steps up, shallowly placed. On the slightly risen floor stands a desk. Large and bulky looking, not very pleasant on the eyes one may say. If you dared enough to run your fingers along the wooden surface, once smooth wood turned harsh and dented after years of abuse, not my abuse of course, my fathers. His high swing back leather chair stand dominate over the desk and even though it may look uncomfortable I know that deep down somewhere it holds some small comfort, sad though it may seem , for me, maybe that is why I keep it.

Still keeping my fingers lightly pressed to the wooden surface I walked around to sit in the chair. Pulling my long legs underneath my body when I did so, it still quite amazed at how the chair was massive compared to my lilth form. It astounds me, as I closed my eyes and let the feelings of my past rush over me, this is a ritual I have come somewhat use to.

I open my eyes and gaze at the library in front of me. One would defiantly believe so if just glanced at for a second, but I could never just glance, could i?

Shelves after shelves stood in front of me stacked to the brim with boxes, all different sizes and shapes. I remember once, when I was younger, in my more naive years, to try and organise the madness underneath my gaze. I wonder quietly how much of my life has been stuffed into this room. Packed in tightly. Some shelves are filled to much I'm afraid to take the box's off because of the fear that all would fall off.

I walk down through the shelves, ceiling high and daunting if it's your first time here I'm afraid.

All the boxes are precious, in some way shape or form. Some I love and some I hate but no matter which, they all in the end mean the same. I walk past many box's they are strange to other, music comes from one to my right, I glance over, Ditra Casa gently flows into the air, my mother's laugh soon follows, and I knew if I walked closer I would more than likely also smell her perfume, I swiftly move on that is not the box I want.

As I walk further to the back I pass a break in between the shelves and I look down in to the blackness to see a shining light at the far end. Bathed in the soft light stand my grand piano, the real was destroyed many years ago, but it still stands, here in my mind, as new as the day I received it.

In the blackest, darkest shelves holds my most precious box, the one I visit every day, even on the days I do not want to. I walk the same steps as I did today every day to get to the box I love the most.

This is where I keep your box.

It is not a big as some others, but not as small as most. Your box is a beautiful as I remember you being, plain and simple but delicate. I reach out to caress the box, wishing for the hundredth time that it was actually you that I was touching; I reach forward, but pull my hands away the last moment, trying to decide wither or not to open it.

I reach forward once again to pull off the lid and I am hit by a bright shining light.

My memories are kept in a room, locked away in boxes. Where are yours kept?

**Please Review. This is very different to things I have done before and I am unsure wither or not to turn it into a story or leave it as a one shot, please review and tell me what you think.**


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